There's something I always remember near the end of a storm. The wild thing is not necessarily the fierce thing battering at edges and weeping, singing, spinning upon the silenced world. There is wild too in the calm waters and the soft meadow.
read again this morning that a story must have conflict to be
interesting. But I don't know. I've read stories in which there is no
apparent conflict, but which have such a sense of place that the silence
beneath that space, the old roots that have tangled and been torn
apart, rewoven, repaired, to create that space, impacts on my
consciousness more than any visible stakes could. The power of
suggestion, and of the simple description of something, should not be
underestimated. The first time I heard the title of Henry Beston's book,
The Outermost House, those words alone were an entire possible story.
changed this webspace a little for the inbreathing time of my next
book. Winter is coming, bringing words and a wolfish sea.